[PS & GV #6] Death on Demand (12 page)

‘We’re keen to observe the proper procedures.’

Valentine, standing at one of the dormers, watched a patient being pushed in her wheelchair down towards the sea. Out on the marsh – a mazelike expanse of reed and water shielded from the ocean by Scolt Head Island – schools of training boats sailed in neat battalions.

‘Proper procedures, really?’ asked Shaw. ‘Like obstructing a murder inquiry? I intend to make an arrest today, Mr Edgecombe, unless I get answers to pertinent questions.’

‘Obstructing a murder inquiry? Really? An oversight, perhaps. But entirely innocent,’ said Edgecombe, his eyes flitting to Valentine, whose narrow, skeletal frame filled the floor-to-ceiling window.

‘The digital CCTV records,’ said Shaw. ‘Did you install the override Ms Fortis?’

Edgecombe unfolded himself from his chair and gave Shaw and Valentine each a single sheet of A4: a neat five-hundred-word statement, signed crisply in Fortis’ name. Shaw, never a believer in the cod-science of reading character from someone’s script, noted that the writing was expansive, even florid, in contrast to Fortis’ crisp demeanor.

Shaw got the gist in a few seconds. Fortis was admitting that she knew about the dud camera and the ‘overlay’ images, which she stated had been used to allow staff to smoke outside and take ‘a fresh air break’. She had discovered this practice shortly after the system was installed eighteen months previously. On an unexpected visit to the night nurse station during a medical emergency she’d been unable to locate the nurse on duty. Five minutes later she observed her from the French doors, outside, smoking. At the time she had been interviewing nursing staff and several had made it clear they would not work a shift system without access to regular smoking breaks. She had decided to turn a blind eye.

Shaw’s team had interviewed the day staff at Marsh House in the last two hours and six of them had admitted to knowing about the blind camera. All were also regular night nurses, and all smoked. They were left with the fact that the CCTV override was a long-established workplace abuse. What did it tell them about their killer? Was he – or she – a member of staff?

Fortis, a fingertip on the rim of a glass of water, went to speak and, although Edgecombe raised a hand, she carried on: ‘There are nearly thirty care homes on the coast, it’s a competitive market for qualified nurses with the necessary geriatric training. A lot are senior and have worked in homes for decades. Smoking breaks help relieve tension in what is a very stressful job.’

Edgecombe beamed. ‘There is no causal link between this practice and the murder. The trust has reluctantly accepted Ms Fortis’ resignation. She was a highly respected member of our team, our
national
team. She will be taking owed leave from five o’clock today for six months.’ Edgecombe checked his watch, as if keen to get back out in the sun.

Looking down he wriggled a big toe. ‘I have agreed to represent Ms Fortis at this juncture. I’m a corporate lawyer, so it’s not really my gig. But we have a criminal division and one of my colleagues is on his way north. I’ve advised Ms Fortis to remain silent until he is able to represent her in person. I hope I don’t have to repeat that advice.’

Valentine, who’d been roaming the room, walked to the desk and lobbed a tin ashtray on to the blotter; earlier, standing at the open windows, he’d detected the engrained aroma of nicotine in the woodwork; so perhaps she didn’t need to use the terrace.

‘Sympathize with the smokers, do you? How many are you on?’

Fortis was fish-white, her lips stretched in a murderously straight line, but she wasn’t sweating and Shaw sensed a deal had been made through Edgecombe with the company: her silence, the paid leave and eventually perhaps a job at one of the other care homes. None of which necessarily meant she was lying, or a killer.

‘So you’ve known for some time that the security system had this inherent flaw,’ said Shaw.

She nodded.

‘A system installed, presumably, in the wake of Irene Coldshaw’s death. Did you know her?’

Edgecombe had a hand up but Fortis’ eyes betrayed a sudden surge of fear.

‘There’s no connection …’ she said.

‘My advice, Ms Fortis …’ The lawyer’s hand moved to rest on a brown envelope on the desk. The tone of voice was everything; as if he was admonishing a child who’d picked up a forbidden crayon.

‘Really?’ asked Shaw. ‘No connection? I think there are several connections. Mrs Coldshaw got out of a secure building without being detected. How? There were no cameras then, I accept that, but there were security pads. The really interesting question is why did Mrs Coldshaw flee in the first place? What was she afraid of? Did Mrs Bright know? Is that why she wanted to write to the local newspaper?’

Edgecombe’s languid bones snapped to attention, but he didn’t speak, perhaps remembering the lawyers’ mantra: never ask a question until you know the answer.

So instead of a question, a statement: ‘I expect that any reputable newspaper would contact us for a statement before going to print.’

‘You’d hope,’ said Shaw, happy to allow the lawyer’s discomfort to deepen.

‘Ruby Bright knew something. I think that’s why she’s dead. That’s the heart of the matter. Marsh House has a secret. Do you know what it is, Ms Fortis?’

No answer. Edgecombe opened his hands out, palm-up, then consulted the Rolex again, shaking it, so that the metallic strap made a rasping noise.

Shaw edged forward. ‘I think that’s why someone went to Ruby’s room, got her in her wheelchair and, knowing that Camera D was blind, went out through the French doors. Then they pushed her down the track to the sea, put a freezer bag over her face, and strangled her. She put up a fight, you know. You didn’t see her face, did you, Ms Fortis? You looked the other way. Or could you not bear to see it again? Did you kill her, Ms Fortis?’

She stood up and seemed unable to decide where to put her hands. Edgecombe rose slowly, trying not to appear hurried or discomforted by Shaw’s allegation.

‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Mr Paterson, my colleague, is about an hour away. Unless you wish to arrest my client, it’s over, Inspector.’

‘Did you kill her, Ms Fortis?’

The word ‘no’ was a whisper, but perfectly distinct.

‘I said it’s over,’ said Edgecombe, to his client, not Shaw.

‘Actually, it’s only just begun, Mr Edgecombe. A couple of things. First, I’m told you have Javi Copon’s passport in that safe. I’d like to take that with me. Javi’s agreed to this, you can check with him in person, he’s downstairs talking to one of my DCs. His story’s illuminating. He says Camera D was an open secret with all the staff, a perk if you’re a smoker, just as you have pointed out. But not just for smoking. On moonlit nights he’d run down to the beach to check out the surf. Seems to be a lax regime, Ms Fortis.

‘Although I don’t see Javi Copon as a killer, do you? But we’re looking forward to finding out all he knows about Marsh House, he’s very keen to talk. In the meantime, I’d rather have his passport in our safe. I certainly don’t want it in yours.’

Shaw cast a final glance at the whiteboard, with its elegant equation.

‘My wife runs the watersports shop on the beach, between Holme and Hunstanton. We get clubs, hiring kit for the day, jet skis and the like. A barefoot ski club came up last summer from West London, the instructor put that very equation up on an A-board out on the sand. The “w” is easy – weight in pounds, right? The result in miles per hour is the speed you have to reach before there’s enough lift – in bare feet – to get the skier up on their legs. So, for me, that would be the best part of forty miles per hour, which is pretty scary in nothing but a wetsuit. But I guess you live for that – the thrill, the sea hissing, the sky, all that space.’

Valentine was at the door, waiting to leave, but not in a hurry because he knew Shaw didn’t do idle chit-chat.

‘We are on the premises now and will be until further notice. The blind camera puts all members of staff under suspicion. Re-interviews will take several days. But then you’re off duty at six? For good. I’m sorry to cut into what little time you have left but when your criminal lawyer arrives you might inform him we will expect you to give a formal statement at St James’, police headquarters, Lynn, at four this afternoon. Sorry if that ruins any plans you had to get out on the water. Our interview rooms are eight feet by ten. All of which is positively spacious compared to a prison cell. Think about that, Ms Fortis.’

FIFTEEN

D
etective (Grade 3) Tiffany Reason could have stepped right out of the DVD box set of
NYPD Blue
. Black, five foot three, 140 pounds, sharp-creased, slate grey pants, cap with badge and number: 455793. Shield in gold, silver and blue. Holster – minus gun – night-stick, cuffs and radio, with the mouthpiece pinned to her collar. Wet full lips, watery roaming eyes, and what looked like a permanent grin which said: ‘Shucks. I’m gonna have to bust your ass.’ PPC Jan Clay was sure the air of mild embarrassment, even self-effacement, was merely a screen.

‘Thanks for taking the time out to come see me here now. I appreciate it,’ said Reason.

The conference suite on the top floor of St James’ police HQ was packed with maybe a hundred officers present, mainly uniformed. The chief constable’s email had been less than subtle: he expected all ranks to attend unless on operational duty elsewhere. Jan noted that while she was still in the building an hour after her shift clocked out, DS Chalker had led a break-out to the Red House. His parting shot had been a model of its kind: ‘Take a note for us, girl. We’re going to chew the fat on the corner. Copy on my desk overnight.’

Jan was happy to avoid the pub. Sometimes she went along to make it clear she wasn’t intimidated. But this evening she wanted to be alone in a crowd. George’s news threatened the future she’d seen so clearly ahead of her just the day before. They’d meet later to talk some more, but for now she just wanted a distraction. She knew she had to get George in for an operation, because it might save his life, their lives. But she suspected he was going to duck the issue and leave the outcome to fate. She couldn’t let that happen.

She sat alone, to one side, by an open window. Their affair was a well-kept secret, as they’d both wanted the anonymity and to avoid the office gossip machine. But she couldn’t help thinking now that when the news did break it wasn’t going to make DS Chalker’s day, and that she’d like to be there to enjoy the moment. For the first time since George had told her Scrutton’s diagnosis, she smiled.

The room filled the east end of the main six-floor office block of St James’, with windows on three sides, which had been thrown open to capture the evening breeze. The view was clear to the horizon, the sea to the north, the river winding inland past a belching power plant. But they weren’t entirely above the town: Greyfriars Tower, the last remnant of the old abbey, stood next to St James’ – a leaning, Gothic, octagonal turret, which came just level with the conference room, and was home to a flock of roosting crows.

Detective Reason had a fist the size of a ham-hock within which was hidden a remote control for a video screen. The first picture showed a pair of sneakers on a wire, the giant letters of HOLLYWOOD in the background, decorating LA’s mountain backdrop; then a pair by the London Eye, then Madrid, Rome, Chicago.

‘Yup,’ she said, ‘this is pretty much a global phenomenon. Isn’t new – I’m not saying it is. We’ve got records going back to the Civil War – that’s our one not yours – says demobilized soldiers, they used to chuck their boots over a tree branch on their way out of barracks, free at last. Maybe started there, maybe not. But it’s here to stay, and I’m going around …’ She mimicked a shuffle, her head down. ‘Going around, place to place, just saying what we know about it in my town, that’s New York. ’Cos if you’re a police officer on the street, you need to know this stuff. I don’t have the numbers here in
King’s
Lynn …’ She smiled at her own emphasis on the archaic name. ‘But New York we’ve lost 813 officers since the force was founded, 322 to gunfire. So you know, a few of us each year don’t get to see Christmas. It’s dangerous out there, and everything helps. Your chief constable, he’s one of the police officers who thinks we should all be sharing this stuff, so that’s why I’m here.’

The room’s air-conditioning unit, despite the open windows, rattled. They all heard it because the room was silent now. Tiffany Reason had her audience respectfully spellbound.

‘There’s a website you can check out for yourselves – flyingkicks.com. They list the theories, right, but the big truth is there ain’t no one reason. There’s a plethora. That’s a good word, I learnt it just for the trip.’

There was a dutiful flutter of laughter. On the screen they watched the images come and fade, come and fade; shoes on wires, thousands of them, in streets in every city on the planet.

Detective Reason broke the theories down into ten neat categories.

1. 1.
   Celebration:
   apparently Oz teenagers throw their trainers over the wire to mark the loss of virginity. ‘They lose their cherry, they lose their shoes,’ said Tiffany. More generally the shoe might represent coming of age in many ways, literally sloughed off as the youngster grows and buys new ones. So brand new shoes on wires were extremely rare.
   
2. 2.
   Memorial:
   the shoes of the dead were hung in the air where ghosts walked. Fallen gang members were often honoured with such an aerial gravestone.
   
3. 3.
   Bullying:
   vicious but effective; the victim is simply forced to hobble away, barefoot or in socks, down the city’s hard streets. The shoes remain as a daily reminder of their humiliation and the power of the bully.
   
4. 4.
   No-Go Zone:
   documented
   cases in Madrid, Sicily, Marseilles and Manila point to shoes marking boundaries around neighbourhoods where the police have agreed to keep out, usually to allow organized crime to operate prostitution, drugs or illegal gaming. This is either a genuine policy, designed to limit the illegal activities, or part of a corrupt partnership between criminals and police.
   
5. 5.
   Drug dealing:
   as a signal that a crack house is close-by, or other drug vending. In some cases – Miami 2008, Sydney 2010 – the brands of trainer were found to be significant and were used to indicate the kind of drugs for sale. Generally, this theory was seen as making little real sense unless combined with a No-Go Zone, or large numbers of shoes, in clusters, which can obscure the signal shoes. Again, colour here could be key; one New York Brooklyn gang used purple Sky Kites to indicate drug sale points, but always on wires crowded with other shoes. (So-called shoe trees, hundreds on one tree or lamppost, were common in Latin American cities and the favellas.)
   
6. 6.
   Art:
   often compared with graffiti, so-called shoefiti was the expression of an individual’s identity in the city. One New York art house had made 5,000 pairs of wooden, two-dimensional sneakers, and tossing them had become a street performance, often greeted with applause from passers-by. Suburban residents tended to react quite differently to shoefiti, and several large cities have shoe squads to clear them away. Most residents felt they brought the neighbourhood down and depressed house prices.